


Eidolon

by TheLibranIniquity



Category: Primeval
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLibranIniquity/pseuds/TheLibranIniquity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philip Burton, before the anomaly project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eidolon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started for the Primeval_Denial team fest last year and (I think) loosely inspired by one of the Burton prompts. Basically this is my take on how Philip became involved with the anomalies.

Eidolon (noun):  
1\. an unsubstantial image; apparition; phantom  
2\. an ideal or idealised figure 

Philip Burton is sixteen years old and far too good for this dump of a place. He taps a bastardised symphony with his toe on vomit-coloured carpet and waits for the onslaught.

“...apply yourself more.”

Oh, it's started already. Philip looks up, takes in the bland, dull expression on the deputy head's face. It's well intentioned, he thinks, but ultimately futile.

He could walk away from here, he thinks. Away from this short-sighted, unassuming dump. Do anything, be anyone he wants to be.

The deputy head sighs. “Go on, back to class.”

Philip wonders sometimes why he stays.

Physics is a prime example of this. Philip gets the best marks in the class but he never feels challenged, not by the curriculum and definitely not by the other knuckle-heads he shares it with. The teachers are a lost cause. They're already on their fourth in two terms, three inexperienced transients and one on maternity leave who hadn't lasted long enough to impart anything more than her name.

Make that their fifth. 

There's a new teacher at the front of the classroom when Philip finally gets there, jostling and pushing the other kids. Another woman, but more shrewd than her predecessors. She watches the pupils stream into the room. When her gaze reaches Philip, she lingers for a couple of seconds, just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

She waits silently for everyone to take their seats. The chatter eventually dulls, leaving something uncomfortable in its wake.

Philip is on edge. This is a new experience.

“My name is Miss Ambrose,” the teacher announces. “I'm filling in for Mr Tanner today. Rest assured his absence is only temporary.”

She surveys the classroom again, and again she makes eye contact with Philip, just briefly. “Today we're going to talk about chaos theory, specifically the butterfly effect. Does anyone know what that is?”

Philip resists the urge to roll his eyes, but to his surprise one of the girls at the front slowly sticks her hand up. “Butterfly flapping its wings in China, Miss?”

“Yes.” Miss Ambrose smiles tightly. “To be more specific, the adage goes that a butterfly flapping its wings in China can cause a storm halfway around the world.”

She is greeted with a sea of blank faces.

“What it means is that the actions of one seemingly insignificant individual can affect everything. For all of time.”

“Sorry, miss,” one of the rugby players interrupts. He's a rarity in that he's not completely stupid. “What does this have to do with physics?”

“Arguably, very little,” Miss Ambrose replies. “But what is science at all without some innate understanding of the world?”

Groans rumble around the room, and Philip can almost count each pupil shutting down and preparing to doss for the rest of the lesson. He'd be right there with them, but Miss Ambrose is staring at him again.

“It's an apt metaphor for life,” she says, confidently holding Philip's gaze. “That with the right motivation, one seemingly insignificant individual can change the world.”

Her eyes narrow, just a fraction.

“They can make it prosper.”

o o o o o

_Dr Helen Cutter waits impatiently for the last few students to take their seats. The old light projector beside her flickers, casting her features in intermittent shadows._

_She looks younger than Philip has ever seen her. Her hair is longer, clothes more casual with a hint of practical. Her entire demeanour is off as well._

_She glances around the theatre before clearing her throat, and in that instant she catches Philip's gaze, hidden as he is in the back row._

_She looks away, disinterested._

_It's because, Philip realises dizzily, she was right._

_And she doesn't recognise him._

o o o o o

Miss Ambrose holds Philip back at the end of the lesson. He ignores the rest of the class as they leave, and is ignored in turn.

“What d'you want, Miss?” he challenges, affecting the same apathy that has kept him apart from every other teacher who thinks they can help him.

He's intelligent, not a fucking special project.

Miss Ambrose smiles slightly, baring her teeth. “You're a smart boy, you tell me.”

Philip stares at her. For the first time in as long as he can remember, words fail him. And he doesn't know what will happen next.

The silence draws out, and Miss Ambrose finally answers his question. “I've been a teacher of sorts, on and off, for several years now. I like to think I can recognise... potential when I see it.”

“You spent an hour talking about butterflies and weather patterns,” Philip retorts before he can stop himself.

“Is that all you heard?”

Philip frowns. He thinks he should leave, but it's impossible to pull himself away from the teacher's intense stare.

“I don't understand,” he admits reluctantly.

Miss Ambrose lifts her chin, never taking her eyes off him. “Your name is Philip Burton. Your step-father's surname, though he'll always be 'Dad' to you. You have an unusually high IQ, and if it wasn't for dear old Dad's insistence on a good education, you'd have every teacher and pupil in this school convinced you were a lazy, stupid child. Something's holding you back from displaying your true potential for all to see, and when you understand that, you'll have the means to have the whole world in the palm of your hand.”

It... he... “Who are you?” Philip eventually manages to ask, reeling inside from the – from the weight of everything he'd just heard.

“I'm a fan,” Miss Ambrose tells him through another thin smile. “Today's lesson was a metaphor – for you.”

“Me.” Philip doesn't know whether this woman is crazy, or it's some elaborate prank or... he doesn't know what.

“You're the butterfly,” she tells him. “You're going to change the world. Make it a better place. _Save_ it.”

She gathers her papers from the desk behind her and walks to the classroom door. “How's that for motivation, Philip?” she throws over her shoulder.

Dazed and quietly gasping for breath, Philip can only stare dumbly in her wake.

o o o o o

_Helen Cutter's speciality was evolutionary zoology. Her passion was exposing supposed flaws and inconsistencies therein._

_Philip starts in the library where he'd eventually (reluctantly) written his undergraduate theses on optics and superconductivity. He spends close to three straight days there, first looking for and then reading everything Helen Cutter has been credited with writing._

_It's harder than he wants to admit, not knowing what he's looking for._

_Eventually, though, themes emerge._

_There were... ripples in the fossil record, according to Helen's arguments. A minuscule fraction of fossils and evolutionary data not where they were supposed to be._

_Other scientists argued that dating techniques were inferior, or they were dealing with an incomplete picture._

_Helen Cutter argued there was a single underlying cause._

“You're the butterfly.” _That's what she'd told him all those years ago._

_Philip shakes his head. He's already changed the world. Prospero, his metaphorical middle finger to everyone he'd duped into believing he was worthless, is no longer just nudging other faceless multinationals but actively leading the way, barely ten years after he first rented lab space. It's still growing, Philip steadily becoming the de facto scientific authority for virtually every media outlet in Britain._

_But still something about Helen bothers him._

_Maybe he isn't seeing the complete picture._

_Not yet._

o o o o o

Philip pulls his jacket tighter around him, buries his hands deeper into his pockets. A crashing noise behind him makes him jump, but in the fading light he can see it's just a deer.

He's spent an hour cautiously following tracks further and further away from the well-worn walking trails. He knows he could have hired an expert to better follow the tracks, maybe even to tell him what made them, but he also knows he doesn't want anyone else here. (He has a GPS unit tucked in an inside pocket. He'll use it only when it becomes necessary to navigate his way out of this place.)

This is his puzzle to solve. And he's so close to an answer, he can feel it.

If only he could...

There. There it is... whatever it is.

Philip has always prided himself on being the smartest person in the room. On being able to intuit the answers no one else could even guess at. He's spent a year familiarising himself with Helen Cutter's work, following the different ripples through her work and suppositions.

And any scientist worth his salt can follow ripples back to the source. To the point of origin.

This is why Philip is standing here, deep in the Forest of Dean, having let himself be led by a woman who makes no sense to conventional thinking, and loose evolutionary theory that makes no sense to linear thinking.

In front of him, suspended in the air, is a shattered light refraction. It's bright in the dying sunlight and somehow Philip just knows that this is it. This is the most important moment of his life.

Of everyone's lives. Ever.

Then a roar echoes through the forest – coming _through_ the refraction.

Philip smiles.


End file.
